by Chloe Rayban
‘Am I?’
‘Honestly, Holly. Oh, look, the towels. Do you remember SotR towels?’
‘Grey and scratchies?’
‘Exactly.’
She came out and stood facing me.
‘So …?’
‘So?’
‘So what about that hot tutor of yours?’ she asked with her tell-me expression.
‘He’s OK.’
‘OK!’
‘OK, he’s more than OK.’ Suddenly I didn’t really want to bare my innermost soul, even to Becky. I mean, it may be a crush, but it’s a serious crush. So I changed the subject. ‘So what’s going on back at school?’
‘Don’t ask.’ Becky threw herself on the bed and started to give me the low-down on every single member of Year Nine.
Oddly enough I found myself switching off. I mean, it wasn’t so long ago I was one of them. But now school felt like lifetimes ago.
Becky slowed somewhat and stared at me. ‘You’re not really listening, are you?’
I’ll swear Becky really does have second sight.
‘No I am, honestly.’
‘So how are things – really?’
‘I guess they were kind of OK until yesterday morning.’
I told her about the Weekday News fiasco.
Becky burst out laughing.
‘It’s not funny. I’m in deep trouble.’
‘Holly, brighten up. Everyone knows the Weekday News is total rubbish.’
‘Do they?’
‘Of course they do.’
‘Well, maybe …’
‘And who cares, anyway. It was only a lunch date.’
‘I know, but Mum must have taken it seriously because she’s dumped him.’
‘Imagine dumping Oliver Bream. What power!’ says Becky, rolling her eyes.
Suddenly I could see how I was overreacting. Becky always had this way of making me feel better.
‘God, what’s the time?’ she suddenly exclaimed.
‘It’s around twelve. Why?’
‘I’m starving. We had to get up at six to catch the train. You got anything to eat in here?’
‘We can have something sent up by room service.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like anything you like. There’s a menu around somewhere.’
I fished it out from under a pile of books and handed it to Becky.
Becky’s eyes widened when she read down the list. ‘You mean, you can order anything from this?’
‘Yeah, pretty much. Their omelettes tend to be a bit soggy.’
‘Omelettes! Who wants an omelette when you can have … Smoked salmon and caviar bagels with sour cream … Or foie gras with truffles … Or, oh my God! … Stuffed quails with lobster claws …’
‘I pretty much stick to the salads. Mum’s got this diet idea that –’
‘Salads! Holly! You are such a killjoy. I could practically eat the Royal Trocadero right now!’
‘Go on, then. Choose something.’
Becky took ages making up her mind.
In the end we had crab sticks, eclairs and peanut butter and jelly bagels.
‘I’m stuffed,’ said Becky, licking the last of the chocolate sauce off her spoon. ‘So what’s this diet thing of your mum’s?’
‘Oh, she won’t eat anything that’s cooked.’
‘Nothing cooked! What’s there to eat?’
‘Well, salads mainly, and fruit …’
‘And she expects you to do the same?’
‘Pretty much. She’s got all these plans for my future.’
‘Plans?’
‘I’m having singing lessons, dance lessons, that kind of stuff.’
‘Hasn’t she noticed you’ve got two left feet?’
I kicked her. ‘As a matter of fact I am making progress, I’ll have you know.’
Becky rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t tell me you’re going to be a superstar like her.’
‘No way! Remember my terminal stage fright? And that was only the carol concert! But I’m kind of going along with it to keep her off my back.’
We spent the rest of the time swimming in the pool and lounging in the jacuzzi. I don’t know where the time went but almost before we knew it Miss Symes turned up to take Becky back to school. We were having a big hug in Reception when Mum swept out of the elevator.
‘Why, who’s this?’ she asked in surprise.
Becky blushed absolutely scarlet as I introduced her She was totally dumbstruck. I stared at her in disbelief. Even Becky – the one person who was completely unfazed by Mum as a singer – was totally in awe of her fame.
That’s what fame does to you. It makes people act weird. They stare and they’re lost for words. It’s totally spooky. They can’t treat you as a normal human being.
6.00 p.m., Suite 6002
But is Mum a normal human being? She doesn’t eat like one, she doesn’t dress like one, she doesn’t do any of the things that normal human beings do. In fact, currently she spends most of her life holed up in her suite meditating with a Buddist monk. Is that normal? I don’t think so.
I ring Gi-Gi to get her view on the current situation.
‘Maybe she’s trying to get in touch with her roots.’ Gi-Gi’s voice is thoughtful at the other end of the line.
‘Her roots?
‘Her mother, dear. Your grandmother, Anna.’
I am all ears. This mysterious figure, Mum’s mum, Anna (short for Anastasia), has been the subject of endless romance all my life. She wandered off to Morocco in a campervan with a load of people who must’ve included Mum’s dad, my grandfather. A year later, she arrived back in London with a load of henna tattoos and a baby on the way. Soon after Mum was born, ‘Grand-Anna’ left her sleeping peacefully at Gi-Gi’s clutching a good-luck crystal in her tiny fist, and ran away with what Gi-Gi calls ‘those dreadful orange people’.
‘Yes,’ continues Gi-Gi. ‘I saw her only a month ago. In Oxford Street. I was going to Selfridges’ food department for some sesame seed. She was with a whole group of them. Gongs and bells. Shaven heads and sandals. You’d think they’d catch their deaths this time of year.’
‘Did you speak to her?’
‘Oh no, no. No, you couldn’t stop Anna mid-chant. At least, best not to.’
‘It must’ve been dreadful for Mum to be abandoned like that.’
‘It could account for much,’ says Gi-Gi. ‘She’s always felt she had to prove herself. So headstrong. Right from a tiny child. Had to have her own way. And look at her now.’
‘She’s not too happy about not winning any Grammys.’
‘It could be a good thing,’ says Gi-Gi.
‘How do you mean?’
‘We all have to learn to cope with failure.’
‘Not Mum.’
‘Yes, her too.’
‘I don’t think she likes learning to cope with things,’ I say gloomily.
‘Oh, she’ll come back up again. You’ll see.’
Tuesday 4th March, 8.30 a.m.
The Penthouse Suite, The Royal Trocadero
Gi-Gi was right. When I check next morning to see how Mum is ‘coping with failure’ she’s right back up again. I’ve popped up intending to remind her that she’s meant to be starting work on ‘Home is Where Your Heart is’.
There’s no need. She has. She’s already on the phone lining up her production team.
When I go down to Reception to check for my post, I find that the whole of the Royal Trocadero has been swept into a frenzy.
A crisis press room has been set up in one of the side lounges. All mention of the Weekday News scandal has been totally forgotten as the media has gone into a frenzy over Mum’s last-minute switch to a new intro song for the Heatwave. They’ve practically taken up residence outside the hotel. A load of extra uniformed security guards have been hired to keep them at bay.
Mum is being sued, apparently, for a sum undisclosed, by the guy who wrote the song she dropped. No one is allowed to talk to the press
, of course. But that doesn’t stop them bombarding us with questions like: ‘How much are they suing her for?’ ‘Is it true she could go to jail?’ ‘Who’s she hired to defend her?’
I’m going frantic over this. I’m really worried. I mean, I know how expensive these court cases can be. But Vix brushes it all aside, saying, ‘No sweat. It’s cheap at the price. However else could we have got so much publicity for the Heatwave?’
1.00 p.m.
I’m meant to be lunching with Mum, but I find her deep in discussion with Victor, her personal stylist on the new look for the ‘Home is Where Your Heart is’ video. Vix is alongside taking notes on her laptop. Mum blows me a couple of air-kisses and shushes me and I go and sit at the lunch table and munch salad while I watch.
Victor has come armed with what he calls ‘Concept Boards’. These are covered in an odd collage of scraps cut from fabrics, magazines, news reports, art books, etc., to give them inspiration.
They are studying one which has what looks like a load of garbage with a bit of torn sack and the cross-section of a wellington boot on it.
‘Yeah, definitely too much of a message in that one,’ says Mum. ‘Sure, I wanna pull the heart strings, but I still want it vampy, Victor.’
‘I get you. I get you. Now here’s more of “the vamp” factor.’ He brings out another board.
‘That’s not vampy, that’s slutty,’ says Mum.
‘Yeah, but it’s a slutty-vampy look that’s sexy too,’ says Victor.
‘I want it slutty-vampy-sexy but with a little-girl-lost feeling. Feeling, Victor. Remember this is the new me. The big-heart me.’
‘Then it’s got to be long hair,’ says Vix. Both she and Victor agree. Which could be a problem because Mum had it cut into a neat shiny bob for the Oscars.
‘Yeah, “little girl lost” … What do “little lost girls” wear?’ muses Mum.
‘It’s blue jeans,’ says Victor. ‘And maybe a cropped jeans top.’
They both stare at him as if this is the most original thing ever.
‘Yeah, blue jeans,’ says Mum. ‘But cut really low …’
‘So that maybe the thong shows …’ says Victor.
‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ says Mum, staring at Victor.
‘It’s rhinestones,’ says Victor. ‘Yes, it’s the rhinestone thong thing that gives the little-girl-lost look the sluttyvampy-sexy edge … AND maybe bare feet …’
‘Nope … not bare feet,’ says Mum, searching through the pile of garbagy boards.
Vix has leaned over towards Victor and I hear her whisper, ‘Sheherazadha had bare feet in her last video.’
(Sheherazadha is an ex-model which means she’s like six foot five tall – while Mum’s petite; and she’s so-oo not happy with this.)
‘I know, heels that are really high. I’ve got just the pair to give it that vamp thing,’ says Mum. ‘… with rhinestone straps.’
At the mention of ‘rhinestone straps’ I choke on a radish. I have a terrible premonition. (It gets worse.)
‘Vix, go and search through the trunks. I’ve got this pair of Manolos …’
LATER!!!!!
‘You did what?’ I haven’t seen Mum this angry ever. It’s like ‘seafood platter’ and ‘wanting-to-be-a-vet’ rolled into one.
Vix is sitting on the floor with two open trunks and the whole of Mum’s shoe wardrobe covering the entire floor area of the penthouse suite. She doesn’t look too happy either. In fact, she’s staring hard at me with this totally guilt-making ‘tell-all’ look on her face.
‘But, Mu-um, it was for charity,’ I say.
‘Charity!’
‘Yes, and a very good cause.’
‘What very good cause?’ snarls Mum.
‘Umm, well …’
‘I’m listening.’
‘A TwilightHomeforDistressedDonkeys,’ I mumble very fast.
‘You mean to say that you have auctioned my hand-made, custom-fitted Manolo Blahniks for a load of mangy mules!’ screams Mum.
‘They’re not mangy. Just old.’
‘You couldn’t you find a better cause? Starving orphans? Limbless war victims? No, you have to auction my favourite Manolo Blahniks for some cracked-up nothing of a charity that no one’s even heard of. I can’t even use it for publicity!’
‘I got an email saying they were very grateful.’
‘An email! Grateful! You’ll just have to get them back.’
‘But Mum, I don’t think I can –’
‘That’s enough, Hollywood. Go to your room.’
Wednesday 5th March, 5.30 a.m.
Suite 6002, The Royal Trocadero
I’m woken by Sit’s gong again. I’m prepared this morning. According to what I’ve learned so far about Buddhism, donations to monks earn you favour with the gods and I certainly need that right now. Last night I ordered from room service a small side dish of saffron rice and two chicken kebabs along with my cold prisoner’s supper.
Sit bows and accepts the food, stashing it away in his basket. Then he gives me a half-sideways look. He must be able to see I haven’t slept and maybe have tear streaks down my face.
‘You are not so happy, Howywood?’
‘Mum’s wild at me. I did something really bad.’
‘You are in need of spiwitual ad-vice?’
‘I guess.’
‘May I enter?’
Sit comes and settles himself cross-legged at the far end of my suite. I can tell he’s dying to delve into his basket (monks only eat like once a day). So this is really nice of him.
‘What do you mean by bad?’ asks Sit.
‘Well, bad is bad, isn’t it?’
‘Not necessawily.’
‘Well, I guess it was a little bit good too. For the donkeys, I mean. And maybe the guy who got the Blahniks ’cos he was totally knocked out when he came out top bidder.’
Sit nods sagely at this. ‘So it was bad and good?’
‘Kind of. But it can’t be, can it?’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, it just can’t be both.’
Sit then goes into a long spiel about what he calls ‘Karmic Qualities’. It seems that according to his religion, things can be classified as good, evil or neutral. Which is one up on Reverend Mother and the Roman Catholics because they only have good and evil. And I’ve found to my cost in the past that it’s not so easy to decide if some actions are one or the other.
It gets better. According to Sit, even good acts come in degrees. They can be 100% good (if all factors are good). But they can also be 75% good, 50% good or even 25% good.
Which is really logical when you come to think of it. How many times have you done something that’s a bit good and a bit bad? Like, for instance, chaining your bike up to railings which say ‘Bikes strictly forbidden’, but only because you’re trying to help a blind person across the road – and then, maybe, it turns out, whatever they wanted was the same side all along … So it’s less good than you thought?
Or take the shoe situation. The auction must be a little bit good because right now at the Twilight Home they’re probably raking the ground and spreading new grass seed with my donation and I can imagine all these old tired donkeys looking over the newly mended fence and thinking of this wonderful lush green grass they are going to be eating come summertime. Whereas Mum can get some more Manolo Blahniks. I mean, she probably won’t even have to pay for them because Manolo will provide a replacement pair totally free of charge as long as her press secretary gets them mentioned in her Heatwave publicity handouts.
I lose the thread of Sit’s discourse as I try to juggle with the percentages of good or bad in my shoe auction. But he’s made me feel better anyway.
Once he’s left I text Becky:
Q: You auction someone else’s
shoes without them knowing and
donate the money to the really
needy.
Is this action:
a) 100% good?
; b) 75% good?
c) 25% good?
d) Not good at all?
e) Evil
HBWx
Later that day I get a text back from Becky.
a) or e)
there is nothing in between
Bx
I am now starting to worry that Becky has been totally brainwashed by the school. All those ‘comparative religion’ classes when Sister Clare tries so hard to be fair and even-handed about other faiths have been like totally wasted on her.
6.00 p.m., the Penthouse Suite
I’ve found Daffyd hard at work on Mum’s new image. He’s doing hair extensions.
Hair extensions! Hang on, I’m SHOCKED.
‘Mum. You can’t have hair extensions. That’s human exploitation!’
Mum frowns. ‘You’re pulling, Daffyd. That’s better.’
I continue, ‘Do you know that poor girls in the Third World have to sell their hair so that you can flaunt it ?’
‘Nuns, babes. They want to have it cut off. It makes them feel virtuous. After all, what are they expected to do with it? Throw it away?’
‘It’s not nuns, Mum. Nuns don’t have their heads shaven these days.’ (I know for a fact – Sister Marie-Agnes always has two little kirby grips showing under her veil.) ‘It’s ordinary young girls, like me.’
‘Well, if they want to sell it, it’ll grow back, won’t it? It’s not like selling …’ she pauses, searching for the right body part, ‘those inside things – livers or whatever.’
‘Oh, honestly. I don’t know how you can do it, Daffyd.’
Daffyd pauses with a tuft and glue-brush midair.
‘Well, how I see it is this. What’s done is done. The original owner would only have to stick it back on themselves now, wouldn’t they?’
‘That’s not the point,’ I argue back. ‘As long as there’s a market for it, people will be exploited.’
‘That’s what I said to Bronwyn,’ he said with a sigh. ‘She was considering extensions. But, the way things are going, she’ll have enough time to grow it long for the wedding herself now.’